


My Life in a Box

by angelgazing



Category: Scrubs
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-23
Updated: 2010-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:09:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelgazing/pseuds/angelgazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Cox is Dr. Cox and JD is JD, not Carol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Life in a Box

The thing about being John Dorian that is so fantastic, on days like these, is that while Dr. Cox is screaming and calling him Shirley, in his typical manner of making JD feel like he should do like the audiences at Gallagher shows and hide behind a trash bag to avoid the spittle of smashed objects—or in this case, the spittle of rage—JD could be imagining Dr. Cox's head was a watermelon on Gallagher's smashing block and the hammer was a-swinging.

Of course it would be much more effective as a stress relief technique if, as the sledge hammer was mere inches from watermelon Cox, JD didn't recoil in horror, lift up the hem of his scrub top to cover his face and shriek like Turk does when he gets into the shower and it's cold and Carla calls him her "horror movie heroine" for the rest of the day.

Something tells him that Dr. Cox won't be so kind in his nicknames, and it'll be like the time when it was 'Astro' and 'Lassie' and then JD will start to miss being called Louise or Carol. Actually it's been a while since Carol came up. JD wonders how she's doing, as he peeks over the hem of his shirt at Dr. Cox, gone stock still speechless with rage. Dr. Cox speechless is very rarely a good thing. It very rarely ends well.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Cox says, "I simply cannot speak to you anymore until after I google B movie actresses and bad horror flick deaths in the first five minutes."

"Actually, if you do that last one and press the "I'm feeling lucky" button it takes you to a site with a list of movies to watch for a bad date," JD says, and knows all too well it's a mistake. His eyes go back behind the cover of his scrubs—which are really the perfect shade of blue for him, he thinks, like he does every time he looks at them closely—when it looks like Dr. Cox's head might just explode without the help of a sledge hammer of any kind. If this were a cartoon Dr Cox'd have steam actually shooting out of his ears to the sound of a train whistle. Which would be pretty neat.

Dr. Cox does that whole deep breathing of I-Will-Kill-You-While-You-Sleep-Just-You-Wait thing that makes JD's stomach do summersaults of fear. It makes JD afraid, and also a little bit jealous, because he has spent _days_ of his life practicing that and only managed to sound like Jack did that time Jordan forced JD—with threats of castration—to watch him, and left very specific rules about sweets that gave both Jack and JD a deep longing for ice cream with sprinkles. JD, fearing for his manhood, held firm until Jack, who'd been taught by his father how to deal with JD, called him Tiffany (well, actually it had come out sounding more like Tit-a-knee, leading to a very unfortunate incident two weeks later when JD actually managed to score a date with this hottie named Tiffany) and held his breath until he was actually blue, and JD had carried him at a hard run to the nearest (and only) old fashioned ice cream parlor.

"Oh, for god sakes, Miss Berrymore—and that's just a freebie, by the way—put your shirt down or let Banana Hammock finally have his greatest wish and put some big fake breasts on you. I mean, it'll improve your self-esteem and it'll give the rest of us something on you worth looking at. Lord knows you could use the distraction from your nose, and you'd finally have the jiggle when you walk that you always dreamed of. But, of course, even if you did have a truly fantastic rack, it wouldn't change the fact that this is not Cancun, and I am not a cameraman for Girl's Gone Wild; I am a doctor, this is a hospital—and I'll try not to break out into hives while I say this but you, also, are a doctor who is surrounded by patients, peers and, most importantly, your superiors—namely _me_," Dr. Cox says in the span of one breath.

JD hates to admit how he's still a little awed by that, so naturally his mouth says, "It's really cool how you can fit like a hundred and fifty words and four sentences into one breath. Can you teach me how to do that?" Somewhere, a Little JD that walks around in JD's brain leaning against a wall sipping coffee looks at his watch and hits the big red 'STUPID' button. Big JD does, at least, put his shirt down and manage to hide his cringe.

"I swear to god, newbie, every time I think that you could not frustrate me more, you sit down with your _My Little Pony_ notebook of fiendish plots to make my head explode and somehow pull a rabbit out of your ass and manage to do it. I don't know how, I mean, it's certainly not because you've got the brains to actually employ a strategy of any sort. There are no little costumes, no black hats, no moustaches to twirl since the estrogen finally started doing it's job—"

"Dr. Cox," JD ventures, with an extreme amount of hesitation, "I'm sorry, but I've forgotten why you started screaming at me in the first place. Did I kill a patient and not know it?"

After twenty seconds where JD has to chant to himself to not actually pee his nurse-attention-grabbing medium scrub pants out of sheer horror that he said that, and Dr. Cox has gone into his ultra frightening too infuriated to grasp the English language, sleepy time murder, lock you windows kiddies cause Uncle Coxy'll get you stage of anger again, Dr. Cox laughs and pats JD on the shoulder. Hard. ("Ow," JD says, under his breath.) "Good one, Nancy," Dr. Cox tells him, in a tone of voice usually used for things like, "Listen, Bonnie, I swear to god, if you sing _She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain_ one more time I will pull out your tongue and strangle you with it while you take your nappy-nap in the nurse's lounge. Are we clear?"

"Um," JD answers intelligently. "Thank you?" But, of course, Little JD takes a drink of his coffee, sees the time on his watch and coughs as he pushes the 'Stupid' button with the side of his hand. Real JD hopes that the bastard chokes. "I do try so hard."

"Do you think, maybe, you could try just a little harder to not embarrass this entire profession?" Dr. Cox asks, dragging out little until it's got about four extra syllables. "Because if you trip on your own stuffed sneakers, scald an old woman with fruit flavoured hot chocolate and end up with your face pressed against her leathery, sagging, wrinkled old bosom again, I _will_ be forced to end you, just to save what is left of _my_ respect for this profession. Are we clear?"

"Yes." JD imagines that Dr. Cox's head is a giant lemon as he walks away, and then does his usual thirty-five and a half seconds of considering the latest rant, mentally adds the names Dr. Cox called him so far today to the list he keeps in his diary—journal, men keep journals—and then goes off in search of a new steaming hot cuppa raspberry hot chocolate.


End file.
